


Sweetling

by Sanra



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2505158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanra/pseuds/Sanra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne Stone is not Sansa Stark. The bastard girl will play the Game of Thrones not as a pawn, but a player. She is her father's daughter, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Midnight

Even in her thick woolen slippers and robes, the wind from the Moon Door blew goosebumps into her skin. Alayne climbed the circular stairway to Petyr's bedroom, a floor higher than her own, moving quietly up the stone steps. It would have been dangerous to be overheard sneaking into a man's bedroom at this hour of night.

 

There was a light shining through the cracks between door and wall, where the rough grey stones left just enough open space to see that Littlefinger was wide awake, probably lost in his thoughts and plans. He always was. She hesitated for a time, and then knocked. Twice.

 

She forced herself to breathe deeply, remembering what she came for.

 

A thud echoed through the tower as the door unlocked, and it creaked open to reveal Petyr Baelish in a thin silk robe. He regarded his visitor, and then smiled. "What a pleasant surprise," he whispered, and then placed a finger to his lips. "We'd better not wake the sleeping Eyrie." He opened the door wide, and beckoned with an outstretched arm for her to come in.

 

Alayne nodded in agreement, and entered. The white of the moonlight on her skin exchanged itself for the yellow-gold of Petyr's candles. It was a lavish room, to be sure. She had entered Petyr's chambers on a couple of occasions, but was always struck by its similarities to her room in King's Landing. There, Sansa Stark had been betrothed to a king; here in the Vale, she was only a bastard.

 

Petyr closed the door again, and locked it with a small iron bar. "One can never be too cautious," he remarked, and motioned for Alayne to join him near his desk. "Come, my lady... have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a glass of wine?"

 

The brown-haired girl shook her head, and thought once more about her intentions here. "No thank you, Father." She lowered herself onto the seat near Petyr's writing desk, carefully adjusting her robes. She knew the neckline went deeper than her ordinary clothes, and as well, she knew what visiting a man in such a garment proclaimed. "I apologize for my state of dress, but my handmaid had already taken my clothes to the laundry. I wanted to be sure that we spoke tonight." Alayne's nerves were apparent in her voice.

 

Petyr's lips curled into a half-grin, and he sat down on a long velvet chair in the corner. "A lucky handmaid, she is. I'm flattered that you came all this way through the dark, cold tower, just to speak with me. Are you sure you wouldn't like a bit of wine to warm yourself up?"

 

"I'll be warm enough in your candlelight, thank you," she said, smiling meekly. "May I say, Father... Your voice is so much like Catelyn’s.” She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it refused to go down. “You have a bite of the Riverrun accent. I hear it now and again."

 

The man stroked his short beard with slow fingers, and smiled softly. "Isn't it strange? Or sort of wonderful, that we remind each other of this person who is no longer with us."

 

"It is. Both." She returned his smile and leaned closer, letting her robe slip down just enough to capture Petyr's eye in a momentary glance.

 

Petyr furrowed his brows handsomely, still stroking his beard. "Pray tell, what did you come here to speak with me about?"

 

Alayne looked up at him. Her eyes were a clear steel-blue in the dimly lit chamber, pale skin aglow. She fingered the fabric of her robes. "You're the only one I can trust. The only one who knows how we're going to get out of this mess."

 

"Such a harsh word, my sweet." He reached behind himself, flashing his grey streaks of hair, to pour wine from a flagon into his chalice. "Only for myself," he contended, then added, "I prefer to find the joy in the unknown, you see. It has so much potential."

 

The dark-haired girl watched him take a long swig.

 

"For instance," said Petyr, you will soon have a castle home in the Vale with your handsome Lord Harry. And if the gods are good to us, I don't see why we couldn't put Winterfell back into its proper hands." Leaning forward, he took her hand in his, and interlaced their fingers. "Yours."

 

Alayne rested her gaze upon Petyr. He set down the chalice and stood before her, lifting her up by the hands. They were close now, the space between them getting smaller.

 

"I want to know how you do it," Alayne breathed, their eyes still locked. "I want to know how you play the game."

 

Their lips closed upon one another's, and Petyr's hands stroked her long brown curls. The fabric of their robes slipped frictionlessly against the bare skin beneath.

 

Alayne was the first to back away, looking Petyr over from head to toe as she nearly tripped on the legs of his writing desk. 

 

He grabbed her waist to steady her, pressing her against the stone wall.

 

"You and I," she insisted, gaze roving from his eyes to his lips, "We’re the same. You came from nothing. I have been reduced to nothing. All we have is this... uncertain future.” Her eyes were welling with tears. The truest thoughts were pouring out. “Harry has been fathering bastards. He only wants me for a dowry..."

 

Petyr caught her teardrops with his thumb before they fell below her cheeks. "You mustn't forget how beautiful you are, my lady. Even when you are sad."

 

Alayne sobbed. "If I am to marry Harry, I need to know that _I_ have a say in his castle. It can't be like it was with Joffrey, or Tyrion. No one cares what a woman thinks..." she focused her wet blue eyes upon Petyr's. "I want to be like you. I want to find strength where it's hidden. I want to know he won't always control me."

 

Petyr studied her for a time, dark eyes traveling across her face. "Of course, my sweet." He held her close, and she cried into his chest, Petyr's robes now falling away. He held tight at the small of her back, caressing her.

 

After several breaths, Petyr pulled back and away. He sat down once more in the velvet chair, and motioned for her to join him. Alayne approached, wiping tears from her ruddy face. When she moved to sit, Petyr pulled her down upon one leg so that she rested in his lap. “Consider yourself blessed, my pretty Alayne..." his breath was warm against her ears, "You have a guile all your own. Your beauty."

 

She looked down at the floorboards, sullen.

 

"The women who work for me in the pleasure house,” continued Petyr, "Are no more clever than any man. They are less educated, and yet even my least comely worker earns three times a man's wages in King's Landing. Womanly arts render men weak. Moreover, a fair wife who can give her husband all he desires, _if_  he fulfills _her_  desires... is the champion of all beasts."

 

Alayne sniffed, her composure coming back to her. "Like Cersei," she thought aloud.

 

"Like Cersei," Petyr concurred. He stroked her back, running his hands down the length of her spine. For a moment, no sound could be heard but for Alayne's heavy breath and the brush of skin on silk.

 

Then, the man lifted her chin with one hand, and moistened his lips. "I truly am surprised that you came here. You must know, my dear, that I am not easily surprised."

 

Alayne flushed, and turned her swollen eyes downward again.

 

"I'm sorry. Come here, sweetling." He held her close, and combed his fingers through her tresses. "It is getting late. I don't want you to waste your sleeping hours here..."

 

"It's quite alright," said Alayne.

 

"Promise me you won't catch cold walking back through the tower." He looked into her eyes once more, and squeezed her shoulders. 

 

"My robes will keep me warm enough," she replied, and hesitated before standing. She cleared her throat again. "Lord Baelish..."

 

“Father," he corrected her.

 

"Thank you, Father."

 

When the chamber door closed behind her, she shook her head silently. The moon was in a different place now, and the tower was nearly pitch-black. She felt along the stones of the stairwell to keep from stumbling, and when she arrived at the door to her bedchambers, it felt as though a deep breath she'd been holding had finally released.


	2. The Gates

Leaving the Eyrie was like waking from a dream. She had been floating in a sky world, watched a woman fall through clouds, and felt herself shrink into a lowly bastard child. Each new home brought with it a new role, a part to play — and the Vale had given her Alayne. 

The journey to the Gates of the Moon had taken everything out of her. And now, in the space of an hour, she had moved from Petyr’s chambers and the wet warmth of his lips to the featherbed of Myranda Royce. Randa was interested in her as she was with everyone; the vivacious woman was insatiable for gossip. 

“What men have you shared a bed with?” said Randa to the pitch dark, keeping close for warmth. “You’re beautiful. I know you _can’t_ be as innocent as you look.”

“None but my brothers when I was a child,” Alayne replied. 

It was the truth. She thought of Petyr, and the way his eyes drifted shut when he kissed her.

“The Lord Protector must be proud. I’m certain _my_ father thought me a virgin when he married me off.” Myranda yawned slowly, stretching. Her buxom chest was scarcely covered by her smallclothes. “Being a widow is far more enjoyable.”

They were the last words preceding hours of silence. The older woman rolled to the edge of the bed, stealing away the warmth of her skin, and her breath began to scratch in her throat as she fell asleep.

Alayne could find no solace. Perhaps it was the snoring, or the chill of winter keeping her ears cold (she kept moving her brown hair to cover them). Even the heavy blanket left her wanting.

The Vale did not like her to sleep.

Moonlight shone white through the high windows, reflected from the snow. The bastard girl with her long dark hair lay still in thought.

 _At least I haven’t lain with Petyr_ , she told herself, recounting the night’s events. _I never will._

 

_—_

 

In the light of day, the Gates of the Moon was staunchly built, capped with snow, and -- like Myranda -- full of life. Just as Alayne had hoped, in the morning she awoke to young men dueling in the yard, their swords clanging against one another’s, yapped at by a senile instructor. The Eyrie’s narrow, stifling halls had been unbearable, but the Gates of the Moon was the Eyrie’s brighter, more lovable twin; laughter rang in the kitchens and all through the walls, every room had a hearth, and at every window, light flooded in from the rolling hills.

While Sweetrobin and Petyr complained of the cold and vexing weather, Alayne could not help but think of Winterfell. She dreamed of Arya, her mother and father, her brothers — all gods-knew-where. She imagined direwolf cubs leaping in snow. She wondered of Jon at the Wall, dead or fighting.

She adored the castle. But _how strange, she thought, to live all summer in the dark and spend the winter in sunlight_.

The court passed the time eating rabbit stew, fraternizing at the fireside, and letting ravens fly. In and out they came — mostly for the Lord Protector, she was sure. The women of the court liked to flirt with the wealthiest men, particularly Petyr. Randa flirted with everyone. The knights and sellswords met, laughed, drank. Alayne knew they were scheming behind closed doors, but Petyr kept it seamlessly from sight.

With respect to Petyr’s game, Alayne heard tidbits here and there, always listening. He had long been concerned with King’s Landing, but now his ravens flew across the sea. She had the sense that everything, especially the marriage, was leading toward something even greater than regaining Winterfell.

Just after breakfast on the day of the feast, Petyr caught her arm during a climb up the towers. 

“Our Heir will be visiting,” said her natural father, a few steps below on the staircase.

She turned round and saw the familiar demeanor — comforting smile, eyes as cold as ice. “Would you like me to show him the castle?”

“Only to steal his heart,” said Petyr. He looked her over, and made a face. “We’ll have to dress you nicely. Nothing too flashy, as we wouldn’t want to outshine our company.” He climbed the stairs to meet her, and together they ascended. “A bit of skin. A jewel necklace. You are sure to captivate.”

He rifled through her wardrobe, now bursting with all of Lysa’s and some of Randa’s old clothes. Randa, in her pity for the young bastard, had sent her a new set of smallclothes and a series of gowns each gaudier than the last. They settled on a green dress the color of moss, embroidered with gold leaves. The back was low, and the front came down just below her shoulders.

“You have two duties,” said the Lord Protector, holding the dress up to her body and straightening the sleeve across the length of her arm. “The first… we must ensure that Harry is taken with you. This should be no difficult task,” he said, now letting the dress fall to the bed. “Secondly… we need to convince Lady Waynwood that you are a sophisticated bastard.”

“I can speak of my education.”

“Good girl. Pray they don’t think you were educated in a brothel….”

Alayne thought for a moment. "I can sing for them the songs I learned at court. I know many that Marillion sang, and of course, the songs of Winterfell. She won't think me suspicious, will she?"

Petyr gave a half-grin, and his dark eyes softened. "No, I think not." He took a long strand of hair in his hand, mulling over his thoughts. "My clever girl. My sweet, clever Alayne. You'll have no trouble at all….”

They kissed for a long time, until the handmaid knocked on the door. 

Once in a while -- sparingly -- Alayne held on to Petyr's kiss for an instant longer than he did.

_You must always keep your foes confused._

"Come in, Lora," she called out to the girl, fair-haired and meek, before leaving Petyr's arms.

 “I’ll entrust you to your handmaid,” he said upon leaving. Before closing the chamber door, he added, “Leave your hair down. It will keep your shoulders warm.”

 _Down. Warm._ The Riverrun accent echoed in her ears, and Catelyn’s image swam before her.

 

\--

 

Harrold Hardying was the picture of gallantry. She and Myranda had spotted him through a window as he rode in to the castle, wheat-blond hair to his shoulders. He wore dark trousers and a cape with the Hardyng crest -- a field of red and white diamonds. 

In the long oval mirror, Sansa Stark was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the image reflected as Alayne Stone, the girl with the dark hair and clear eyes, base-born but beautiful. 

"You're lucky I'm here," said Randa, busy painting Alayne's cheeks with a pot of rose-colored balm. "Our handmaid is quite the tomboy. She can _barely_ brush one's hair, let alone put on rouge. When I got married, she made me out like a Gulltown prostitute."

Shortly after Petyr had left, Myranda Royce came knocking and shooed Alayne's handmaid away, insisting she help her prepare.

"You're saying I wouldn't attract a husband that way?"

Randa smirked. "I knew you'd be a cheeky girl..." Satisfied with the makeup, she looked over Alayne's dress. "Too loose..." clearing her throat, she unstrung the bodice of Alayne's mossy dress and squeezed her in as tightly as a sausage. The younger girl gasped, her bosom now quite prominent and her waist concave. Randa knotted the bodice strings and let them hang loosely down Alayne's back. "Handmaids are useless if they can't make you beautiful. It's their job to serve you, and how will a handmaid keep her job if she can't fix you up for a husband?"

Alayne wriggled to make the bodice open wider. She thought of Shae, her thin frame and dark ringlets, the Lorathi lilt in her voice. And the dwarf husband she had married while Shae served her.

"Would you like some wine?" asked Alayne, avoiding the memory.

"I could be persuaded," said Randa, with a hint of a wink. She had a way of grinning with her eyes that felt like she was reading your secrets.

 _Be careful,_ Petyr had warned _._

Alayne poured the wine, still wearing her corset and smallclothes. "In Harrenhal we like to play games with our wine," she lied, passing Randa the chalice. "Do you do that in the Vale?"

Randa took the cup and gave a hearty laugh. "We love to play drinking games at the Gates -- in fact, I'm sure we will tonight. But I'm very good at these. I daresay you are unlikely to win."

The bastard girl giggled, and poured some wine for herself. "What game, then?"

Myranda Royce thought for a moment. "I'll tell you something about yourself," she declared, swirling the wine gently. "And if it's true, you drink. I'll go first."

Randa clicked her tongue, and stared through the window as she thought. The sunlight set her brown eyes aglow. Alayne breathed in the scent of her own drink, which smelled pleasantly of fruit.

"You've heard the Lord Protector making love through the walls."

Alayne laughed. "To Lady Lysa!" she consented, remembering the cries of her aunt ringing through the Eyrie. "It was... _loud_." She took a swig from her cup, but drank little. Then she grew quiet, thinking of a truth to tell Randa. "My turn. You fancy the sellswords," she guessed mischievously.

"More than fancy," said Randa, drinking her wine. "I would bed them in a heartbeat if they didn't have wives."

"Must the wives find out?"

"The buxom girl giggled. "I suppose not. I quite like you, little bastard girl," she said, and thought of another guess. "You'd rather sleep with a woman than with Harry Hardyng."

Alayne laughed in surprise, and let the idea sink in. She took another drink. "Only a woman with much larger breasts than my own."

"Yours are small, but they are plump..." said Randa, reaching out to push up Alayne's breasts through her bodice. "They stand up all on their own, don't they?"

Alayne blushed, knowing Myranda Royce's eagerness to embarrass her. "I have another guess," she said, Randa sitting much closer to her now on the featherbed. "You wish you were the one being offered to Harry."

Randa smiled to herself, took a sip, and then swiftly spat it out upon the floor in jest. Both girls laughed. "The bastard-making oaf! I could never...."

 “If Harry should be so lucky,” said Alayne, as Randa dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. She wore an oddly twisting grin.

"The only thing I find desirable about Harry the Heir is his wealth, and even then, the Royce family is doing much better than the Hardyngs and their trail of debt." She swirled the wine inside her chalice, which was nearly empty. "Thank goodness for your father, putting them back on their feet with his filthy money, whatever seedy place it came from."

Alayne watched Randa reach for the flagon, knowing she had tapped into her fears.

"I am truly grateful it is you and not I..." Randa smiled darkly, her lips berry-red.


	3. The Mockingbird's Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gates of the Moon comes alive with a gala, and Myranda Royce will do anything she can to keep Alayne down.

The snowy gardens stretched out upon the far side of the castle, accessed by a serpentine staircase that wound itself down among the trees. The girls crossed a long mirrored hallway, decorated ornately from ceiling to floor with portraits of the Royce family, and opened the door to the balcony.

In the brisk evening air, Nestor Royce and Lady Waynwood stood deep in conversation. Upon seeing the girls, they fell silent at once. Nestor's lower lip was pressed tightly into a grimace, though Lady Waynwood expressed no emotion. She was unreadable, hands clasped neatly at her waist, eyes alert. There was a heaviness to be felt.

Nestor, at his towering height, grumbled an excuse to leave and gave his daughter a kiss atop her head. “At dinner I will see you, my ladies?”

“Of course,” said Lady Waynwood, smiling curtly. Alayne could well assume they'd been discussing Petyr. Or Harry. In the _game_ , no one thought much of pawns like herself.

Without another word, Nestor strode through the castle door and closed it too forcefully behind him. The women proceeded down for the feast.

"My dear Alayne — it is a pleasure to see you again," said Lady Waynwood. Her words were careful, elegant. "Will you show us through the gardens?" Her grey hair was cinched in a knot, and on her sleeve she’d pinned a small broken wheel, the Waynwood crest.

“I would be happy to,” said the baseborn girl, noting Myranda’s bemused expression. Lady Waynwood had completely disregarded her as the resident of the Gates.

 

—

 

Music rang out through the Great Hall as a single minstrel, grey of hair, plucked a small wooden harp. Several men and women were already dancing, bright fabric and gilt jewelry all swirling together.

"Ah, yes, we finally have the company of our fine young ladies!”

Petyr Baelish rose from his table at the center of the hall, smiling amicably. Alayne noticed a rather gruff-looking Bronze Yohn had been seated beside him. The heavy-set lord was dressed in a dark formal tunic rather than his namesake armor, though by the look in his eyes, he was on the verge of an altercation. Petyr was no doubt trying to quell their disagreements, yet Yohn would have none of it.

Suddenly, she realized Lady Waynwood and Randa had already left her side — they were approaching the dancers, mingling gaily.

Petyr was grateful for his daughter's appearance. "Sweetling, you have already met our Bronze Yohn," he said, welcoming her into the conversation with a diplomatic bow toward the knight.

Alayne kissed her father on the cheek and approached Yohn. She was unafraid, knowing her presence would calm him. “Of course. Lord Yohn, I am honored by your visit. Has your family come with you?”

The man drank a long swig of ale, and rose just as Petyr had. He hovered over Littlefinger at a great height, saying nothing.

“Yes — what of your family?" asked Petyr. "Your handsome sons are always welcome at the Gates.” He smiled unwaveringly. It was Petyr's gift to appear always at ease.

The large man gave a hoarse guffaw, coaxing a smile from Alayne. “My family is keeping warm at Runestone, dear girl." He patted her shoulder with a meaty arm, determinedly avoiding Petyr's eyes. "The music is rather more pleasant than Lord Baelish’s drivel. Shall we dance?”

Ignoring his insult, Alayne nodded her consent, gave a short curtsy, and took his sizable hand. They detached from Petyr, who looked on expressionlessly as they pressed through the crowd. Since their arrival, significantly more guests had crossed into the dance floor.

“A fine daughter for such a pompous ass,” Bronze Yohn remarked. 

Alayne laughed politely. “My father tries to be kind… but at times —“

“Don’t defend him,” he said gruffly. 

Alayne couldn’t help herself. She gave a fleeting half-grin. Yohn understood.

Everyone around them was moving in step, and the odd pair slowly found the rhythm in the steady tune. 

The minstrel’s voice had a baritone heaviness, quite unlike Marillion's.

As in many courtly dances, they moved geometrically to the music; side-to-side and then forward — now backwards — and finally, a spin…

"Now,” said Yohn, his voice barely audible through the festivity, “I wanted to get you away from the prying ears and those damned sellswords of your father's. That's what he wants you to call him, is it? _Father?_ "

Alayne raised her eyebrows.”He _is_ my father," she said plainly, but her heartbeat quickened at the accusation. She had doubted his belief from the day they’d met at the Eyrie — he had looked her over, studied her too long, and she knew he recognized her from Winterfell. 

They danced without speaking, and Yohn spun her once more.

Before pulling away, the man whispered over her shoulder, “Sansa Stark, I would know you anywhere.”

Alayne's stomach turned. The music seemed to fade, and she lost her place in the dance. "S-sorry—“ she apologized, bumping elbows with another couple. 

Yohn remained calm, and twirled her around so that her mossy dress flared sweetly. "You may have the rest of the Vale fooled, but not I.” 

The conversation followed the minstrel's rhythm and the footing of the dance. As they neared again, Yohn had a final word.

"Petyr Baelish is dangerous. And _in_ danger. Sweet girl, I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

She returned from the dance while Yohn joined other guests. The room itself seemed in motion. Many new faces had appeared, and the hall was ablaze with color, laughter, and song. She stood quietly for a moment, dizzy and unsure of the feelings welling up inside her.

Alayne had looked forward to the gala until Petyr had stopped her on the stairs, declaring Harry's visit. He was always requiring her to do things for him, giving her parts to play for his gain. Now she could see the Vale's suspicion and distrust… they _loathed_ Petyr, and just like him, they were plotting. All the pawns and players were here, twirling around in their best dress and laughing with their wine-stained lips, but soon they would make their vital moves. And who knew which pieces would be left standing…?

At the dining tables, Randa was sitting next to a finely dressed Sweetrobin, apparently trying to cheer him up. 

Alayne had not seen him all day. His arms were crossed with a familiar petulance and his head was turned downward, casting shadows upon his little nose.

"Robert!" she called out kindly.

No sooner did the boy look up than a tall man caught Alayne's arm, turning her round.

She found herself looking upward into a pair of blue eyes, sky-bright. This was the same young man she'd seen riding in — his checkered cape now removed, he wore an indigo tunic hemmed in gold.

"H-Harry!" she stammered.

"I've been waiting for my turn," he said in jest, a boyish grin overtaking him.

Alayne swiftly gathered her manners to curtsy for him. "Nice to meet you," she said. "I am Alayne Stone, daughter of Lord Baelish."

"You're beautiful," said Harry with a slight bow, dimples adorning his cheeks. He smelled of ale.

Alayne smiled, and felt her cheeks grow warm. "Thank you. You're very… handsome."

Harry laughed, and raked his fingers through his hair so that it fell effortlessly back in waves of blond. "You'll learn not to flatter me," he quipped. "Would you like to dance?" 

He extended a hand, and Alayne felt the weight of obligations upon her shoulders. She took it.

The minstrel had just begun another tune, this time a dance beginning in lines and culminating in a wide circle. Most of the lords and other guests joined in — the women stood across from the men, and as the dance went on, they would trade partners. Petyr stood across from Lady Waynwood, each dancing with a practiced civility.

Harry eyed the baseborn girl as they circled round, palms pressed against one another’s high above their heads. For all his earlier chivalry, he was now drinking in her body, gaze roving down to the plump breasts Randa had squeezed atop her bodice, and further down — down to her waist — down to her backside.

 _He’s as subtle as a vulture,_ she thought. She avoided Petyr's eyes, knowing this was exactly what he wanted.

“How long will you be staying?” asked Alayne, speaking into his neck as they danced.

“Just a night,” he said, breath hot against her ear. “I won’t be far, should you feel lonely.”

Alayne couldn’t help but laugh. “I… you…” she searched for some witty remark, but nothing would come. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said awkwardly.

Harry chuckled in reply. They continued without speaking.

And then the minstrel leapt to another verse. It was time to switch partners.

"Thank you for the dance," she called out amid the ruckus, and Harry nodded just before grinning widely at another maid. For all Alayne knew, it could have been the mother of his child.

Instead of moving to the next partner — a thin man, red of hair — she picked up her skirts and crossed the dance floor to the tables, mostly empty.

A knot rose higher and higher in her throat, and her face grew increasingly strawberry-pink. She raced down the Hall with all her emotions bubbling up, vision blurring.  _I don't belong with Harry_ , she told herself.  _This isn't right._ _  
_

There was Petyr, dancing now with Sweetrobin in what was clearly a show to look like a doting father. Everyone at this wretched party was faking something — Harry, Petyr, Myranda — they were all liars in this stupid game, and here she was among them, clawing her way through to get the upper hand. And that mysterious gain was nowhere to be found — perhaps it was a myth, created by Littlefinger only to perpetuate her fantasies, to keep her subdued. 

She finally reached the balcony and pushed the heavy double-doors open to the fresh, cool air.

Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

 

—

 

Alayne’s absence remained unnoticed for quite some time. When at last the balcony doors reopened, she had managed to dry up her eyes.

A delicate hand fell upon her shoulder.

_Myranda._

"Why are you crying?" she asked, joining Alayne at the balcony wall.

The young girl swallowed her unease. "I don't know. I don't like parties."

"You aren't a very good liar.”

Alayne cast a sidelong glance at her rival, and said nothing.

"Here…" Myranda wrapped her arms around Alayne. 

It should have been a kind gesture. Alayne felt her tension increase and her throat knot up again with all the pressure of the evening. Randa held her still, gently stroking her hair. Alayne felt like a mouse being comforted by cat’s claws.

“You look like you are holding too much inside."

They remained intertwined for several breaths. The young girl finally let herself relax into Randa’s warmth, despite a troubled inner voice…

 _She wants me to trust her,_ Alayne knew. _She wants me to believe that she is helping._

“You have no clue how to make a man love you,” Randa observed, breaking the silence. She stroked Alayne’s arms, heating her up in the chill winter air.

“It’s never been required of me until now.”

“Well,” the busty girl replied with a smirk, “I suppose we all have to start somewhere. You’re lucky you have me around to teach you.”

“I truly don’t care about making Harry love me,” said Alayne, managing a laugh. "I'd rather you marry him.” 

Randa clicked her tongue. “Now, that’s no way to speak of our handsome knight. No doubt you could learn to see some good in him, if only for his fortune.”

“The fortune he doesn’t yet have.”

“Oh, my little porcelain doll, you haven’t learned the finer aspects of society, have you?” Their eyes met; Myranda’s flashed with intrigue. Of course the Royce girl knew how to play the game —she _lived_ for it.

“He is promised a fortune, but it all hangs in a delicate balance.” Alayne chose her words carefully. “I don’t know that I can make him _want_ me.” Her voice became delicate, splintering.

_You must help me now, Myranda. You must show me I can trust you._

Randa tugged her by the sleeve of her gown into the corner of the balcony, where the only way they could be seen was by someone walking through the gardens. It was too cold; far below, the primrose bushes stood tall and snowy. Peeking out through the snow were white snowdrops and purple hellebores the same color as Petyr’s tunic. 

“You need to present yourself better,” she said, straightening Alayne’s posture so that she stood tall in her long green gown. “ _There_. And bring your chest forward… go on.”

Alayne glanced up at her, and pressed her arms together so that her breasts looked heavy and full.

“Oh, Alayne! Do that for any man and he’ll be drooling all over you,” Randa grinned, now straightening the bodice again as she had done in her bedchambers.

“That sounds horrid!” Alayne managed a laugh.

“Not at all,” said Randa. Something in her eyes had changed, and she was looking down through dark lashes at the younger girl. Their breasts pressed together in their rigid bodices. Randa stroked the round curve of Alayne’s jawline, and it reminded her of Petyr.

The space between them began to close, and Alayne let her eyes drift shut. Their lips closed upon one another’s, soft and slippery with rouge. 

The baseborn girl gave a whimper, but Randa held her still. She pressed a tongue into her mouth, sweet with wine.

 _Sansa Stark would never,_ she thought silently.

“Oh…” said Myranda, who pulled away for a moment and studied Alayne. “You _do_ know how to kiss. I thought you didn’t know much about boys…” Randa gave a devilish grin and kissed her again, deeper, pressing the young girl up against the balcony wall.

It was all the same now, these people using her body as they pleased. She let it happen, remembering her purpose. 

_This is all part of the plan… isn’t it?_

“Do you know how my husband fell in love with me?” Randa breathed into her ear, hot breath against skin. 

Alayne shook her head, and found herself stroking the velveteen fabric of the Royce girl’s gown.

“I had a friend’s help, you see. She helped me to _relax_ … I was all nerves, before.” She scratched at Alayne’s back, exposed by the low line of her dress. 

“And that’s how you were married?” Alayne whispered.

“Something like that. This Harry, he’s had his way with women. He _knows_ the difference from a girl who will bed him, and one who won’t.”

Alayne looked up to meet Myranda’s gaze. “You don’t think he wants a virgin?”

Randa trailed her fingers down Alayne’s neck, making little circles on the flesh of her breasts. “My poor girl… _no_ , he wants a _woman_ who can please him. You are much too innocent for his liking, even with that delicious little kiss of yours.”

“And you think… you think you can help me?”

Without another word, Randa tugged the girl’s bodice down just far enough to loosen the fabric around her breasts. She freed them, so that they hung down pale and pink over the dress. Alayne felt herself blush, but Randa kissed her again and then moved downward, taking a pink nipple between her lips. It was already hard in the cold air; she flicked it with her tongue. 

Alayne moaned, and the Royce girl silenced her with a hand over her mouth. She was now very exposed at the corner of the balcony, Randa moving from one nipple to the other, teasing them adeptly.

She squirmed against the wall and breathed heavily into Randa’s palm, overwhelmed by the sensation.

After a moment, the older girl returned to her full height and kissed Alayne again. “Harry should be better than I,” she giggled. “He’s had more practice.”

The baseborn girl took a deep breath, too flustered to respond. Her head was swimming with wants and uncertainties.

“Shh…” whispered Randa, and Alayne realized that her skirts were pressed up around her thighs. The busty girl trailed a fingernail along her legs until she reached the softness just between, covered by the thin fabric of her smallclothes. “Real women don’t wear these, sweet girl,” she whispered into Alayne’s ear, maneuvering inside the lacy garment. She began circling her fingers in the most blissful way.

Alayne arched her back, breasts heaving as she struggled to control herself. Randa teased her with a skilled hand, and then pressed a finger into her wet center. It was all Alayne could do to cover her own mouth and smother her moans.

“I can teach you to please a man,” whispered Randa, her fingers slipping in, moving gently. “You can have power over your little Lord Harry… over any man you choose. And you _will_ have power in the Vale.”

Time itself came to a halt. Alayne pressed her nose into Randa’s neck, stifling her cries, hips gyrating along with her ministrations.

Finally, Randa stopped, freeing Alayne to stand up and allowing her skirts to fall back down into place. She straightened the girl’s bodice again so that her breasts stood out full and plump, but rather less exposed.

“To finish would make everything pointless,” Myranda whispered coyly. “You’ll go to Harry now, and let him see what a lovely girl you are.”

Alayne caught her balance, and ensured her body was covered. Her breasts were chilly from the winter air, and the heavy fabric of the dress now felt like pins and needles.

“Is it obvious?” asked Alayne, wondering about her rouged lips and slightly undone hair. 

“Obvious? You look _radiant,_ if that’s what you mean,” Randa replied, wiping her fingers clean on a handkerchief.

 

—

 

 _Myranda wants… she wants… she wants me to ruin everything,_ thought Alayne, still attempting to regain composure in the Great Hall. She had left Myranda on the balcony, closing the double doors behind her in a cloud of euphoria. She could hardly think straight.

In a fog, she searched for reason — Randa was only out for her own gain. Perhaps she sought to spread rumors about the two of them… so that Harry would think her uninterested in men. Or she wanted to form an alliance where they both could rise.

In any case… she made her way through the Great Hall, a prowling direwolf.

“Wherever did you disappear to?” came Petyr’s voice, catching her shoulder.

“I went to the balcony for some fresh air,” she said distractedly. “Have you seen Harry?”

The dark-haired man gave her a wry grin, and pointed a hand toward the stairs. “He’s in the gardens below.”

She thanked him quickly, but couldn’t shake his knowing smile as she made her way through the gala, pressing onward through womens’ wide-hooped dresses and men who wanted a dance.

There were the stairs, guarded by a young knight. She descended, holding onto her skirts so as to avoid tumbling down over them. 

She didn't care that Harry was a rake, but only that he had to be convinced. She must make an impression. 

 _Is this how knights feel at a tourney_ , she thought to herself, _Ready to play their best game?_  

As Petyr had promised, there he was, laughing and mingling with a group of knights. Upon seeing Alayne at the base of the stairs, he sent them away, and they bowed politely as they took their leave.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the gardens in a twilight glow. 

 “I was looking for you,” said Harry, approaching with his dimpled cheeks. “Where have you been hiding away?”

“I was talking with Myranda Royce. You’ve met her, surely?”

“Of course, our lady of the house. She is quite lively when she drinks,” smirked Harry. “I hope she didn’t wear you out.”

Alayne sashayed across the stone path to stand at Harry’s side, suppressing a laugh. “She couldn’t if she tried.” The young girl noted the fullness of his shoulders, the straight-bridged nose. “What do you think of the gardens?”

“The vines are almost the color of your eyes,” he remarked. Every flirtation wheedled Alayne that much closer to liking him. “I came here once, a long time ago. Lord Arryn was having a gala.”

“You were wanted by all the young women, I’m sure.” She pushed her breasts forward as Myranda had shown her, and Harry’s blue eyes shot toward them on cue.

He drank in the sight just as he had when they danced. Harry laughed, combed his fingers through waves of blond. “Had we our own gala in these gardens, I’m sure all the men would be after you.”

Alayne pulled her hair to one side, toying with the loose strands. “It’s too bad we don’t have our own gala. Imagine if we did…. I’d have to ask you to dance,” she said coyly.

“Usually the gentleman’s duty.”

“Not tonight,” said Alayne, taking his hand. It was becoming a game, now — she took Harry’s hand and intertwined their fingers, moving back and around in the same dance they’d shared earlier. The minstrel’s song could just be heard through the heavy castle doors.

“I was assured that you were beautiful, but not that you were bold,” Harry whispered in her ear.

“You have a lot to learn about me.”

He let a hand wander to her exposed back, brushing the soft dark locks away. He stroked her with his fingernails, the same way Myranda had — she shivered at the touch.

“You’re cold…”

“You can keep me warm.” She looked up at him with a dark green gaze. The young knight looked different from this angle, softened by the evening light, sandy hair falling into his eyes.

She couldn’t say who moved first. There was a short kiss, and then a longer one. Alayne looked up, and Harry’s pale lashes were fanned out on his cheeks.

There was a sudden noise from above, and to the couple’s surprise, Myranda’s balcony was now occupied by none other than Lord Baelish in his purple tunic and Lady Waynwood, thin and grey. The mother and father of the betrothed clapped and cheered… even at this distance, she could see the satisfaction in Petyr’s eyes. 

Myranda, expressionless for only a moment, beamed down at them. _A crocodile’s grin_.

The arrangement had set into motion.

Alayne whispered into Harry’s ear, “Let them see it again,” and he couldn’t help but smile. They kissed once more.

 _There it is,_ Alayne knew. _You are mine._

 


End file.
